WENTWORTH. It's long enough for a man with a grievance. It gives him plenty of time to brood about it.
GERALD (anxiously). Who has Bob got a grievance against particularly?
WENTWORTH. The world.
GERALD (relieved). Ah! Still, three months, Wentworth. I could do it on my head.
WENTWORTH. You're not Bob. Bob will do it on his heart.
GERALD. We must buck him up, Wentworth. If he takes it the right way, it's nothing. I had awful thoughts of five years.
WENTWORTH. I'm not the judge, you know. It may be six months.
GERALD. Of course. How does he decide? Tosses up for it? Three months or six months or six years, it's all the same to him, and there's the poor devil in the dock praying his soul out that he'll hit on the shortest one. Good Lord! I'm glad I'm not a judge.
WENTWORTH (drily). Yes; that isn't quite the way the Law works.
GERALD. Oh, I'm not blaming the Law. (Smiling) Stick to it, Wentworth, by all means. But I should make a bad judge. I should believe everything the prisoner said, and just tell him not to do it again.